


but the sun is eclipsed by the moon

by RC_McLachlan



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: The Battle of the Five Armies threatened to unmake the world, but The Negotiations of the Three Kings might actually succeed.Or, a short lesson on the lifecycle of dandelions.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65





	but the sun is eclipsed by the moon

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up to the party six years late with a Starbucks cup full of Pepsi* 
> 
> Before you embark on what is surely _the_ most boring fic in this fandom, please know that it would have been an utter mess without my beloved [Nanoochka](%E2%80%9C). I owe her my life, and also actual Starbucks.

The Battle of the Five Armies threatened to unmake the world, but The Negotiations of the Three Kings might actually succeed.

Bard is not sure how long they've been at it. Time has no meaning in a kingdom without windows by which to measure the sun’s position, and he's found little hope in using meals to mark the hour. They've been served eight since he entered Dáin's cavernous hall. He's ready to ask Gwegg, his terrifying dwarrowdam attendant who keeps forcing cooked onions upon him with every meal and muttering how they'll prevent him from getting worms, for a mirror so he might gauge his time there by the gray in his hair. 

He hopes Bain will serve Dale well, because by the time Bard leaves the mountain, he will either be too old to rule, or dead from attempting to come between the hurricane and tornado in the room. Each is determined to prove to the other that they are the more destructive force.

"If anything, I am also to be reimbursed for the aid that was given after the killing was done—to the caravans that came from the Blue Hills. It was not an inexpensive endeavor," Thranduil says lightly, betrayed by the angrily building clouds in his eyes as he leans forward, using his height to loom over the table. It’s as though he believes  _ this _ time Dáin will take it as the threat it's meant to be. His tenacity ought to be applauded.

Dáin slams his fist down onto the marble. There's a significant dip in the stone from previous abuse. By the time these talks end, he might break through to the other side entirely. "No one asked for your help, you covetous imp! I'll not dole out a single gold piece to reward you for your whims."

"Without those  _ whims _ you would be without a third of your population. I was completely justified in this and would be repaid for it."

"Oh, then this is the perfect time to tell you I've heard of the infestation your pretty wood is suffering these days," Dáin muses, and by the way Thranduil sits up straight in his chair—the least ornate of the three at the table—this is going nowhere good. "I've sent over some of my lads to take care of it."

The Elvenking twitches. It's as good as breaking the stone table in two.

Bard looks over to Gwegg in the corner of the room and lifts his goblet in a way he hopes appears kingly and not desperate.

"You wouldn't dare," Thranduil hisses.

Dáin's grin is so wide that the tusks in his mustache stretch like wings on either side of his face. "Dare? It wasn't a dare. Call it a whim." 

Gwegg refills his cup until the wine kisses the brim.

"You should probably just leave the decanter," Bard sighs. Gwegg pats his arm consolingly.

"Soon their tempers will crest and they will break for food," she says. Her voice is as deep as the red of her beard and as immovable as the mountain itself. "I'll make sure they give you extra onions. Eat them all, and you'll never get worms."

It's easier to accept he will leave the mountain with a lifelong aversion to onions than it is to argue. "Thank you, my lady. Perhaps you ought to be conducting these talks instead."

"You're doing just fine, my boy," she says and steps back to stand with the other attendants. He flashes her a grateful smile, then turns back to watch the show.

Thranduil wears rage like his jewels. On someone lesser, it would be a gaudy presentation that serves not to awe but to boast, but on him, it only complements his beauty. He's incandescent. Bard sips his wine and, unnoticed, looks his fill. 

"The infestation is in hand," Thranduil grits out. Lightning sparks in his gaze.

"That's not what I heard."

"Unsurprising since you never shut your mouth long enough to let others speak."

Bard casts a droll look over at Gwegg, who absolutely does not react.

"Then read my lips," Dáin snarls, slapping the dent in the marble with his fist as he stands. He cannot make a weapon of his height as Thranduil does, but his sheer presence fills the room in a way that makes Bard feel small. "You will bear our aid with a smile and thank us for our generosity."

"Any dwarf that so much as steps  _ foot _ into the Greenwood—"

"Not quite so green anymore, from what I'm told.  _ Mirk _ wood, I believe my boys're calling it."

The insult only fuels the wall of black rain threatening to run roughshod over the room. "—will be taken as provocation, and I will see it as an act of war."

It is the opening Dáin was obviously looking for, because the humor in his grin grows dark, a black sky shivering to green with a twisting, terrible promise. "I'll send a raven to tell them the good news. They'll be at your doorstep by nightfall."

Bard had been content to let their bickering drive these talks in the hopes their respective storms would eventually fizzle out and they might get real work done, but as a bargeman, Bard has weathered the anger of hurricanes and funnel clouds both. Hot air sustains them. And this room is full of it.

The promise of war between the elves and dwarves is not an idle one, and the only kingdom that will suffer for it in the end is Dale. The life of a human is but a dandelion, blossoming bright in the spring and blown to the wind barely two seasons later, and yet despite its short life, it spreads its legacy far while acting as the keystone for so many things—food, medicines, dyes, feed for animals, harvest growth. The presence of dandelions in a garden means the earth is healthy. If he lets them forget it, they will leave the earth scorched.

Luckily he brought a lifeline with him from Dale in the event that something like this happened. It's finally time to use it.

"Forgive me, my lords, but I nearly forgot. I have gifts for you from my daughter."

At the sound of his voice, the roar of two storms clashing ceases so suddenly that the hush left in their wake positively echoes. He waits until Thranduil, mouth tight with something that might be shame, slides into his chair. It takes Dáin an extra moment to figure out how to gracefully lower the massive chalice he'd been brandishing at the Elvenking, but he too takes his seat. 

He lets them stew in humiliated silence for a moment while he reaches for the pack he brought with him, withdrawing two parcels wrapped in fine leather. Each is tied with a braided cord that bears a flower. He slides the one with the deep-blue cornflower to Dáin. To Thranduil he does the same, except his flower is a small sprig of valerian. Both somehow survived the trip to the mountain, which is a good omen.

Bard laces his fingers upon the table and sits back, trying not to radiate smugness as two of the world's most powerful kings slowly open their humble gifts.

"My youngest, Tilda, is quite taken with both of you. She begs me constantly to tell her of all your vast knowledge of forgery and craft, Lord Dáin, but only after I ply her with tales of your great battles. She believes you speak with the tongue of the very earth itself." 

He drinks in Dáin's slack-mouthed surprise as Dáin undoes the leather and beholds his prize. Bard smiles, then turns to his right. Thranduil is holding himself so still that he's almost shaking in his seat. 

"And every day she asks for permission to write letters to the Elvenking, who she is sure fastened every star in the sky in place. She wants nothing more than to walk the great halls of the Greenwood and learn histories time has long since forgotten, for surely you have not."

If Bard had seen the Elvenking on the battlefield wearing such an expression, he would be parting that silver hair in search of a head wound.

Bard turns his head to catch and hold Dáin's gaze. The Dwarrowking's eyes burn like fire in a smithy as Bard says, "When I was a boy, I met a traveling dwarven smith who crafted the finest knives anyone had ever seen. It was as though he whispered magic into molten steel so he could mold and adorn it with images seen only in dreams. He let me hold one once, and I cut myself on the blade, but the edge was so fine that I didn't notice until I got home and my mother saw the blood on my sleeve. My father resigned himself to the fact that I would speak of nothing else for months, even after the dwarf took his shop elsewhere. On one memorable occasion, I had to be physically restrained from running off to join the dwarves in Ered Luin; I wanted to learn to work the great forges I heard about in stories."

Without turning to face the other occupant of the table for which this next part is meant, he continues, "And I have known elves since my infancy. My father ferried wine and herbs from the Lake-port to the checkpoint where the river breaks and had dealings with those who guarded it. They were always kind to me, and quite generous with their food stores. I think the only time I had fresh fruit was when I was able to accompany my father on those trips. Even when I was a man fully grown and those same elves unchanged by time, they spoke to me as a friend, invited me to join their card games, treated me as though I were not the sum of a few blinks of their eyes—there and gone. But I never forgot. All they had to do was scale a wall in a single go or mention how badly a man once beat them at dice two centuries previous, and I was reminded it was an honor to even be acknowledged at all.”

He pauses to wet his throat with wine, then looks down at his hands, both cleaner and older than they've ever been.

"You know of my humble origins. I am barely qualified to sit at this table and engage with you in such talks," he says, holding up a hand when Dáin opens his mouth. "I do not say it to rouse sympathy. I say it because though I may be king in Dale, I have not forgotten the wonder and belief that you inspire in us."

This is perhaps the most manipulative he's been since the crown was placed upon his head, but he can't find it in himself to regret it because the tales are true and he is right. It is only by their grace that he is allowed into these talks at all. The kingdoms of mortal men have little impact on the world, for there is only so much a man can do in his short time. A dandelion has every right to live and live well for its many uses, but it has no true sway over the storms that govern the world. If Thranduil and Dáin had not invited him, he would not have been surprised or even truly offended.

It's the mark of a good ruler that invites others to share in their plans and power. And he has the good fortune of sitting with not one, but two, infuriating though they may be.

Bard smiles and looks to where Dáin tearfully stares at the parchment that sees him standing atop a mountain, victorious in pose, hand held aloft with his mighty hammer aimed at the sky as though challenging the Valar to a duel. 

A glance to his right tells him Thranduil is drinking in his own visage upon the page. Tilda spent the longest on this one. She fretted for days about perfectly capturing the Elvenking's countenance. And also the sheer size of the elk he rode, but mostly Thranduil's eyebrows and mouth. Dáin she drew with a grin on his face. She was mortified when Bard suggested she give Thranduil the same expression.

_ "The Elf King would not  _ waste _ his smiles like that, Da," _ Tilda had practically scolded, as if it were common knowledge.  _ "He gives them only to the truly extraordinary." _

Tilda must be an expert on the ways of elves, because as long as Bard has known him, Thranduil has not once smiled in his presence. He disguises a laugh as a cough. 

At the sound, Thranduil's eyes snap to his, but what lurks in that glacial gaze is a mystery. His eyes are the color of a shallow winter spring, but it is folly to believe one could wade safely in them. They hide an endless drop into darkness.

Clearing his throat, Bard looks away and says, "We have little impact on your realms, I know, but you both hold such sway over ours. You need only look closely to see it. I hope you will not soon forget it."

Dáin sniffles loudly. One of his attendants brings him a thick cloth, into which he blows his nose. "I don't think I've ever looked so regal, not even in the portraits drawn by my people's most seasoned artists. Look at the details in my hammer! Your bairn is damn impressive."

"I would tell her you said so, but I'd never get a moment's peace," Bard says with a grin.

"Does she really believe I speak for the mountain?"

"My lord, she would burn Dale to the ground if you asked, I'm sure. Although I would ask you use your powers of persuasion to get her to clean under her bed instead."

Dáin wheezes with laughter, and when he pounds the table with his fist, it makes Bard laugh with him. Already the hot air in the room is dissipating and taking the furor of the tempest with it. 

With a relieved exhale, Bard leans forward and seizes upon Dáin's obvious love for children. "Perhaps we should turn our attention to matters of winter trade. My eldest, Sigrid, has some ideas for a festival where all our people might gather—some to perform music and merriment, some to sell their wares, but all to welcome the cold season together."

Dáin visibly brightens. "Never let it be said that I don't appreciate a good market, even a temporary one. Your children are wise, Lord Bard. Next time bring them with you. I want to meet them."

"They would be most honored," Bard says truthfully. He can already hear Tilda's ecstatic shrieking.

"Your children are indeed clever and talented, but it is also a credit to the man who raised them."

Blinking, Bard turns to his right, but Thranduil does not look up from where his attendant fills his goblet, even once it's full and the dwarf has retreated to the shadows.

He looks over at Dáin, who lifts his heavy brows in equal bafflement, then back at Thranduil. The elf pays him no mind and instead sips quietly at his wine. One hand rests lightly upon the leather sleeve of Tilda's gift, the valerian curling around his littlest finger with quiet contentment.

If he will not own to it, Bard will not force him. He inclines his head and simply says, "Thank you." 

After that, the negotiations resume with a much kinder attitude, and by the time they break for the evening, the plans for a winter market are well underway. Bard cannot wait to get to his chambers so he can write Sigrid to tell her how her dream of a melting-pot market is not only coming true, but very well may heal the break between the dwarves and elves. 

He bids Thranduil and Dáin a pleasant evening and makes noise about how he looks forward to continuing in the morning, then falls into step behind Gwegg to be led back to his quarters. 

"I wonder if you might permit me to walk with you, Lord Bard."

Bard stops midstep, then turns. 

There is no expression upon the Elvenking's face. Between that and the fine silver-and-white cloth he wears, he looks like a frozen lake, completely opaque as to hide everything unlucky enough to be caught beneath the surface. The only outlier to the tableau he presents is the leather sleeve tucked under his arm. 

Thranduil might look frigid, but Bard has spent every winter since this birth walking easily over ice to know better, so he smiles without a hint of fear and sweeps out an arm. "I'd be glad of your company, Lord Thranduil."

Without another word, Thranduil glides to stand at his side, but when their attendants move to follow, he tilts his chin ever so slightly and intones, "I believe we can find our way without issue."

The attendant assigned to Thranduil bristles with outrage to be dismissed so easily, but Gwegg just lifts her brows and looks at him in askance. Her beard twitches a little with whatever she would like to say but won’t for propriety’s sake.

Bard smiles and winks. "I'm sure between Lord Thranduil and myself, we will be fine. Thank you both for tending to us so diligently today."

The other dwarf mutters something unintelligible, but he has no doubt that Thranduil hears, if only for the way he shifts his weight. Gwegg bows.

"The honor was ours, lad. You have a good sleep; you have more than earned it." With that, she takes her companion by the arm and drags them away, but not before calling over her shoulder, "Extra onions at breakfast for you, Lord Bard, don't you worry!"

He laughs. "If I somehow leave this place without onion reek clinging to me, it will be a miracle."

"I did notice quite a lot of them on your plate," Thranduil muses.

"Lady Gwegg is operating under the impression that I may die soon of worms, and onions are the only cure." Bard grins at him and adds, "I know your senses far surpass my own, and even I can smell my breath. I wouldn't stand too close if I were you."

"I confess I quite enjoy onions." With a prim sniff, Thranduil walks ahead, leaving Bard blinking at the implications of such a statement before hurrying to catch up.

When Bard first entered the mountain, he'd gawked at the sheer height and grandeur of the halls. Dale could have fit into them thrice over with room left for the lake. Even now he still marvels at their size. He and Thranduil walk past great pillars whose craftsmanship cannot be overstated. He truly hopes Dáin was sincere in his offer for Bard’s children to accompany him on his next visit. He wants them to see this magnificent place more than he's ever wanted anything.

"You are gawking," Thranduil says. The expression on his face is mild, but Bard still feels he's having a laugh at Bard's expense. Or scolding him. Despite the space the grand hall affords them, Thranduil walks so close that Bard can feel the brush of silken fabric against his hand with every step. 

"Are you not impressed? I know there is no love lost between elves and dwarves, but surely you must acknowledge the marvel of their architecture. I've never seen anything so grand in my life."

A muscle jumps in Thranduil's cheek. "Then you have not seen many things."

Bard grins. "A year and a half ago, I ferried your wine to and from port. 'Grand' is not a word I would use to describe my experiences until the Company of Thorin Oakenshield came to Lake-town."

Thranduil darts a glance at him, surprised. "I believed your moment of self-effacement to be a ploy to get us to cooperate."

"Oh, it was," Bard admits cheerfully. "But it also had the added benefit of being true. I am but a poor bargeman who fumbled his way under a crown."

"You come from a royal bloodline," Thranduil points out. 

"My people hold no love for Girion. Life was easiest when they conveniently ignored the fact that the only legacy he passed down to me was failure."

"You corrected his mistake and led your people out of catastrophe."

"Not without help." Bard smiles a little at the memory of his people cheering and weeping with relief at the sight of elven caravans bearing food and medicine. 

Thranduil's confident stride falters a little, the awkward step echoing in the hall, but he recovers swiftly with no acknowledgement of it. "You have come into great power but remain unchanged by it. That you believe yourself unworthy is precisely why you are fit to bear the weight of rule. I can think of no better candidate for a king."

It is said almost perfunctorily, as if the conversation warrants only a small portion of Thranduil's attention, and yet Bard’s smile feels wide enough to split his cheeks. He tries to stifle it, or put it away for later when he's alone in his room and it's safe to show his heart, but it won't budge.

"That is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," he says.

Thranduil turns his head just enough that he can look at him from the corner of his eye. His full gaze always feels like the cold slide of a blade into an unprotected belly, but even this icy sliver pierces deep. "It also has the added benefit of being true."

Bard ducks his head, still smiling. "Using my own words against me. You flatter me, Lord Thranduil." 

Thranduil slows his stride and Bard matches it until they come to a stop. 

Thranduil slips the leather sleeve into his hands. "If anyone has been flattered this day, it is not you. Your youngest—Tilda?" At Bard's nod, he exhales. "She truly has an eye for detail. Even with the chaos of that day, she still saw the patterns in Belegroc's reins, the color of the thread in my coat. But while her skills in observation are to be commended, it's her talent for… She made me look like…"

He opens the sleeve, taking great care to move the valerian aside where it won't be crushed against his hands, and stares down at the picture of him upon his elk—Belegroc, and Tilda will certainly want to know its name—as if he has no recollection of that day.

Bard allows him a moment to finish the thought, but when nothing comes, he prompts, "Like a hero from the old stories?"

Startled, Thranduil lifts his gaze and fixes him with a flat look. "I beg your pardon." 

It's so funny that Bard cannot even laugh outright; instead he spreads it through his words so they shake when he speaks. "Do you honestly not know what you look like, my lord?" 

"I am almost tempted to make you tell me, but I do not think I would care to know the answer."

Thranduil absolutely does not want to know that, on the day he rode into Dale, he looked like the coming of a star-spattered night, cutting through a sea of gold armor as decisively as dusk dismisses a sunset. His war gear had been dark and aged, and so he did not look out of place among the ruined stones in the courtyard, but his hair had flashed in the light of the day like a falling star. Bard smiles a little to remember how his heart cramped so gladly to see him that, for a moment, he forgot they were on the brink of war. Thranduil made a terrifyingly beautiful vision, even after he warned Bard against expressing gratitude for his aid. The image has lived in the forefront of his mind ever since.

He shakes his head to dislodge the starburst of silver hair against the backdrop of gold from his thoughts and flashes a grin. "Then trust me when I say Tilda captured you perfectly."

Thranduil makes him endure the weight of his stare long enough for Bard's shoulders to ache with it, then blinks and looks back down at his own likeness. "Well. I shall have to write to her and convey my thanks. Perhaps she will come to my halls and learn from the masters there."

He had not been jesting when he told Dáin that Tilda would be excited to learn he loved her gift. Being the youngest child in a house of three hasn't been easy, and she gladly soaks up any and all attention paid to her.

But to foster with the Elvenking by invitation might put her over the edge.

Bard chuckles. "We can discuss it another time. I'm not ready to lose her to the wonders of your realm just yet." 

"You, of course, would also be invited. Your whole family as well." Thranduil lifts a shoulder in a way that is not dismissive as a shrug, but the movement looks careless. "I would not separate a parent from his children."

"If I were not saddled with a kingdom, I would take you up on it," Bard says.

"Why do you persist in believing your kingship to be a burden? Are you deliberately this vexing?" There is a thin line of annoyance woven through the words, tight enough to strain. His brows are beetled with something softer than anger, mouth pulled a step to the left of bafflement.

Bard shrugs, as dismissive as Thranduil's gesture was not. "I do not do it to vex you. Well, perhaps a very little. You always rise to the occasion." At Thranduil's droll look, he says, "But it is simply an old habit, one that I will probably not break for a while, if ever. I was not born and raised into rule; I suspect it will never stop feeling like wearing the coat of someone else."

"I suspect it will fit with time," Thranduil says, as gently as he is able. "You will grow into it. You already have."

"I will have to take your word on that."

It wins him a slow blink. "Do."

Bard laughs and then glances around to find they've somehow left the grand hall completely and made their way into the even grander foyer Gwegg led him through earlier, after having left his chambers for the negotiations. He hadn't paid it due attention then, too busy fretting over adequately representing Dale, but he looks his fill now. Five and twenty staircases rise and twist away from the center of the room like the tentacles of a water beast, and the walls are inlaid with so many gems that it feels as though they've stumbled into the night sky, surrounded by stars.

"You are gawking again."

"Are you truly not fazed by any of it? Your halls must be staggering in their beauty."

Thranduil casts a perfunctory glance around. His expression doesn't so much as twitch from its placid hold but for the displeased tic in his cheek. "Dwarves build things at such scale to make up for what they lack in stature."

Bard chokes on a laugh. "That is very unkind, my lord."

"As…  _ impressive _ " —said with a moue of distaste— "as these halls may be, this architecture is fixed. The walls will remain thus until someone comes and wipes the slate clean to begin again. My halls were built into living stone; as the world shifts, so does my kingdom. It has changed many times over the ages, and none had to lift a finger to make it so. A realm reflects the ruler, and the ruler the realm. I have and continue to evolve as king, and my kingdom grows with me. It is not right for a hall like this to stay unchanged."

Thranduil is proud, to be sure, but there is nothing haughty in the way he speaks of his home and its amorphous nature. In fact, a small smile has pawed at his mouth like a baying hound desperate for attention. It warms Bard to see it.

"Perhaps it is better that I grow used to unchanged halls like these before making a fool of myself in yours. I may not survive the awe."

"My invitation stands. I could use the entertainment," Thranduil says with not a little humor.

Laughing, Bard decides to be bold and bump their shoulders together as though they were two ruffians in a pub. "Take pity on me. I am but a simple man."

"Nothing about you is simple." It's punctuated by the creak of leather. Thranduil still holds Tilda's gift in his hands, his long fingers pressed into the sleeve.

Bard sucks in a breath, and from the soles of his too-new boots where they pinch and rub, he feels the hot rush of blood that comes before a battle. It flooded him to bursting the night the air was thick with fire and he faced his legacy with a black arrow, and it threatens to bowl him over now with the Elvenking's pale gaze every bit as thrilling and fatal as a dragon's.

He had murmured for Bain to keep his eyes on him, but he doesn't bade Thranduil to do the same—the Elvenking is already looking.

For a moment he thinks if he opens his mouth, the flood will spill out. But with every moment that passes, the silence grows heavier, and the twinkle in Thranduil's eyes dims. 

He swallows it down just enough to say, "I believe this is where we would part ways for the night."

"Yes," Thranduil agrees as something shutters on his face.

"But I do not want to."

Thranduil's eyes go wide. It is like watching the moon of a dandelion’s seed clocks eclipse its sunny head. It seems Bard is not the only one who feels them standing on the precipice of something that may shunt the march of history into a new path.

"Since I'm almost certain Dáin gave you the lesser of the guest chambers, perhaps you might join me in mine so we may continue our conversation."

The way Thranduil stands unbearably still makes Bard's bones ache in sympathy. "You would be sparing me a great deal of discomfort, as my room is little more than a closet. Although surely you must be tired of conversation, for we have spent the day doing little else but talking."

"True. But I like talking to you," Bard says with a smile. "I do not wish to stop just yet."

It must be an answer Thranduil did not expect, because he parts his lips on an exhale. Between them a thousand clocks float into the air. "Nor do I."

When Smaug fell out of the sky, Bard had collapsed onto his arse and breathed until feeling returned to his limbs, and he clutched Bain in his arms and laughed and wept into his hair with sheer relief. 

When he offers his arm and Thranduil slips his hand into the crook of his elbow with a genuine smile, it feels very much the same.

They take the stairs that will lead them to Bard's undoubtedly extravagant chambers and pick up the thread of conversation as though they never dropped it, Thranduil explaining the magic of the Greenwood that allows it to change with the earth while Bard listens with not an insignificant amount of wonder. In their wake drift a thousand seeds riding wisps of wings, all waiting for a wind to take them to root somewhere new.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Thranduil got dicked down but good.


End file.
